STORYMOJA

If you liked the first part of Cliff Oluoch’s Every Dog has its bad day, then you will love the rest of the story, now posted here as the Storymoja Story of the Week. For the Writer’s profile, go to the Feature Cliff Oluoch
Writer of the Week.

The jostling as we boarded the matatu was normal. Impatient Kenyans forever in a hurry to get nowhere. The matatu terminus was filled with public service vehicles, mostly14-seater Nissan vans, most of them recently painted with yellow strips, a result of the tough new regulations that had been put in place to bring some semblance of sanity in the chaotic transport industry. A few 25 and 30-seater matatus dotted the terminus. ‘Fire Station’ terminus was one of the many in Nairobi’s Central Business District. Other termini were well spread out to cater for the increasing number of commuters in the city.

The terminus was a sea of humanity bustling with activities: hawkers out to sell their wares, uniformed bus conductors (touts) shouting for passengers, crooked queues for certain organised routes, passengers jostling for other disorganised routes. It was a poorly lit area. Insecurity was never a major issue, mainly due to Kenyans love for street mob justice. Petty thieving like pick pocketing was, however, rampant. Despite the maze, commuters had no problems locating the vehicles at their service.

“Watch where you are going,” I shouted at a short man who had cut in between my wife and myself, thus interrupting what we had earlier planned. I clutched my wallet tighter to guard against marauding pick pockets known to prey on unsuspecting commuters. “Mannerless creature!” I muttered.

“Nairobians!” cursed my wife as she swore at the overcrowding that she was part of.

The matatu filled up and the tout lazily signalled the driver to get moving. It was astonishing to see a tout so tired so early in the evening. They were famous for their daring antics, boundless energy, creative vulgarity, and annoying obstinacy. Their colourful language and dare devil attitude ensnared young girls, thus making touts amongst the most admired and loathed men in the country. Parents detested them for obvious reasons, while young school girls glorified them for their machismo.

Before the driver could drive off, a well dressed man moved to his window. There was a brief silent conversation, some exchange of money and the driver started the vehicle. The terminus was illegally managed by clandestine groups like the dreaded Mungiki who collected contribution from each vehicle that used the terminus. The amount ranged from daily to monthly payments. Refusal to pay often led to dire consequences, some of them fatal. It is an arrangement that the Government had conveniently turned a blind eye to, acting toothless as the Mungiki became more daring.

“Seat belts!” commanded the conductor. We all knew what that meant: belt up or alight. Passengers grumbled as they belted up, all aware of the consequences of not obeying the stringent rules that had been imposed on all Public Service Vehicles by the Ministry of Transport. Some of the belts were either too old or of inferior quality. They looked more like school bag straps. The old and worn out seats in the matatu were a proof that maintenance was not high on the priority list of the vehicle owner.

Off we went from Tom Mboya Street, the driver, skilfully and at times frighteningly, manoeuvring through the chaotic Nairobi evening traffic which was, expectedly, heavier during month ends. The passengers were quiet, each conversing with their thoughts and watching the slow progression from the buzzing Tom Mboya Street to the bustling Murang’a Road to the relatively calm Kipande Road. Unlike some modern matatus, this one did not play any music, a welcome relief to most of the adult commuters in the vehicle. Music, when played, often was loud and strong, some vehicles, or mobile discotheques as they were known, boasting of ear-splitting, body jarring 5000W speakers, the latest DVD and disco lights in and out of the vehicle. These are the ones that attracted the youth and some pot-bellied men suffering from mid-life crisis.

Inside the matatu were posters of local and international celebrities. Musicians, footballers, athletes, politicians basketballers adorned the sides of the vehicle. A few witty phrases had also made their way into the matatu. My favourite ones: ‘Why is there so much month left at the end of the money?’ and ‘Take Me Drunk, I am Home’

“Time to pay,” the tout announced curtly.

“It’s too early to start paying and we are not even halfway through the journey,” complained one of the passengers as he reached into his pocket to get the fare. Typical Nairobians, more bark less bite.

“Just pay up,” the tout hissed as he started collecting the fare from the nearest passenger. “End month and no one is carrying coins,” he continued his monologue. I was one of those who had ‘big’ money for a trip of Ksh.20.

To describe what we were driving on as a road would be a great injustice. Terraces, for lack of a worse word, would suffice. As a friend of mine once said, the roads were unvehicleworthy. A common joke amongst Kenyans was that the only people who drove straight on Kenyan roads were drunks.

No passenger alighted until the roundabout at the National Museum of Kenya right at the end of the heavily pot holed Kipande Road. There was no bus stop at this junction but with such matatus, bus stops existed where the tout or driver decided them to be, and this was often where to pick passengers. The driver duly pulled over the sidewalk as one of the ‘passengers’ asked to alight. The first man (The Pilot), who was seated next to the driver in the front cabin, suddenly whipped out a gun, hit the driver on the head and ordered him to interchange positions with him. Almost simultaneously a second man (The Captain) behind him stood up brandishing a gun, his back to the driver.

This was too fast for all of us and the full impact only registered when the person sitting next to me (Shot Putt) rapidly announced, “Ngui ici (You dogs!) Today you will know who we are!”

We had just been hijacked! Finally all those horror stories that I had been reading in the papers, hearing on radio or from friends had become a reality. I studied The Captain. He had bloodshot eyes and his face bore ugly scars which he must have collected during such raids. Maybe scar collecting was his hobby. He seemed intoxicated and edgy, his eyes darting from one end to another. There was no effort from the hijackers to conceal their identity, no dark glasses or balaclava. Strangely, I did not panic. Honestly, I am a late reactor to shock. I am one of those who take hours, sometimes days, to understand a joke. Some jokes, like those dumb ‘knock knock’ ones, just never register on my humour radar.

What followed was a well rehearsed act that must have been executed many times before by such a group. The Pilot swiftly and confidently took control of the vehicle, quickly changing places with the legit driver who was still rubbing his head from the blow.

Right behind The Pilot was The Captain, his gun quickly drawn out. He barked orders to all around. He remained standing. “How do you expect us to survive in this day and age, ngui ici?” he barked at us.

Nyenye nyenye nyenye. And how do you expect us to survive with all you thieves hovering around to steal what we have worked hard for? Even you ngui ici.

I looked at the gun trying to figure whether or not it was a toy. This reminded me of one of my cousins who, caught up in a similar situation, had told the protagonist that the gun he was carrying was a toy. The thug had laughed, returned the toy gun to his jacket pocket just to whip out the real thing.

“What about this one?” he had cheekily asked my cousin bringing the gun closer for confirmation.

“That one is real,” my cousin had humbly said as the protagonist had gone ahead to rob them.

I was not about to pull such stunts. The gun looked real to me. The thugs were definitely real and the problem on our hands more than real.

Shot Putt was right ahead of me, in fact he was seated between my wife and the matatu conductor. A short weather beaten fellow, he also kept on bellowing the same. “We have to pay rent and school fees just like all of you here! Even this is a job! Ngui ici!” I almost laughed. Socrates, the father of philosophy, would have been proud of him. My composure, or lack of panic, almost did me in. “Are you a cop?” he asked me. I slowly shook my head, avoiding all manner of eye contact with him.

The fourth man, Jordan, was seated between myself and a young lady who could not take the shock: she was trembling continuously, her teeth cluttering noisily in her mouth. Talk of stage fright.

“Remove all your money and valuables!” Jordan commanded as he produced a withered Nakumatt paper bag from his pocket. It was clear that the gang was expecting some real booty. He was a young good looking fellow who seemed almost apologetic for getting involved in the business. Maybe that was his secret weapon. His dressing was immaculate, a white Chicago Bulls top, accompanied with a matching stylish track suit bottom and the latest Nike shoes. He was clean shaven, with a few bling bling hanging loosely around his neck. He spotted an earring on his left ear. He looked hot, more of a Wealth Distribution Officer than a hijacker.

I forced a half smile as I reached into my trouser pocket and removed my Sagem mobile phone – a phone that had been forced on me by a friend who was tired of tracking me all over Nairobi.

“Cheap stuff – Shame on you for dressing so smartly yet walking around with such a phone!” I acted ashamed by hanging down my head. I was dressed in my spotless end of the month suit: a broken suit of checked coat and a matching light brown trouser, beige shirt and a striped tie. It is the suit I wore when going to the bank. In fact, it is the only suit I owned and my kids knew that I wore it only during ‘serious’ functions. Looking around, I noticed other smartly dressed Kenyans. I was not alone in this end month madness.

I put my hand in the other trouser pocket and came out with my bulging wallet – more from stuffed receipts and business cards than from money. Jordan ogled at it and greedily snatched it from me. He went ahead to empty it of the Kshs.1 400 (about 20 USD) that was inside. The disappointment on his face was comical. He angrily went ahead and roughly frisked me, emptying all the other pockets found in my clothing. More papers and a few broken pieces of chalk (I am a teacher!) came out. Finding nothing more to take, he loudly clicked his tongue, insulted me and then turned to the lady. She had no purse or bag – an act that drew some derogatory remarks from Jordan. “Whore, pity I can’t take your pussy!” She burst into tears.

“Shut up!” he barked, his rough voice ringing high. “The show has just begun!” She whimpered, her sobs quietening. He did not turn to look at the woman.

By the time Jordan was through with the two of us, the matatu had reached Parklands Police Station – too near yet too far. For some strange reason, the traffic in this section seemed to move faster than before. Murphy’s Law?

“Sit upright, all eyes in front and nobody moves a muscle!” The Captain commanded as the vehicle smoothly went past the police station. He also sat down, though I noticed that his eyes kept on darting from side to side, his gun hidden between his legs.

We moved past the police station, joined Parklands Road, St. Francis’ Catholic Church (here I remembered all my Sunday School prayers, said ten Hail Marys and waited) to Forest Road which had an impressive line up of institutions: the imposing Swaminarayan Temple, the immaculate Premier Club, the expansive Premier School, the deserted Simba Union Club, the traditional Goan Institute and finally the lacklustre Pangani Cemetery. This last one drew some dry comments from The Captain and Shot Putt. “Who wants to be buried alive?” The Captain asked as his mates laughed at the dry joke. For us nothing was funny.

At the end of Forest Road was a roundabout – cluttered with outdated billboards and yellowed posters. Taking a left turn would lead one to the busy Thika Road and then to the dreaded Karura Forest, theatre of horrors. Turning right would lead one to Pangani Estate, Eastleigh, Kariokor, often a hub of humanity that only rivalled the CBD in population density. The driver took a right turn and I sighed with relief knowing that we had left the route going to Karura Forest. Some policemen were manning the roundabout but though out hopes rose, we knew that it would take a miracle for them to know that we had been hijacked. There were far too many matatus for the police to worry about. One hijacked one would hardly be noticed, unless it was involved in an accident. I prayed for an accident, a tyre burst, the matatu running out of fuel or anything that would stop the vehicle from reaching its destination. My prayers went unanswered. Who mentioned Murphy’s Law? I wonder what the opposite of Murphy’s Law is.

Shot Putt and Jordan swiftly interchanged positions, while The Captain still stood guard, continuously calling us all the names he could master: Ngui (Dogs), Nugu (Monkeys), Funda (Donkeys) Nyenje (Cockroaches). We certainly were an animal farm to him. As he mentioned each animal, some of us nodded in agreement. Closely scrutinising him, I wondered whether he was insulting us or the animals. I also wondered what animal he was. May be mbori (goat).

Shot Putt was more thorough than Jordan. He straight away searched my shoes and socks, making me remove them and shake the smell out of them. There was nothing and the smell did not seem to bother him. He must have smelt worse. But the smart ass then went for my inner clothing. His first stop was my crotch. “What is this?” he asked as the sadist in him squeezed my manhood. (Ouch!). I winced, wondering what kind of answer he was expecting from me (‘This is a Weapon of Mass Destruction that was missed out by the Americans in Iraq!’)

After the thorough and humiliating body search that yielded nothing, Shot Putt trained eyes spotted my 5 year old watch that I had been given as a Christmas gift by one of my students , Alykhan – of course teachers have to be rewarded – after he had finally understood the difference between the signs ‘greater than’ and ‘less than’. What Alykhan never got to know was that I had only mastered those signs two years into my teaching career.

“Remove it, ngui ici!” Shot Putt hissed as he gestured towards my watch. I sighed deeply but had no option but to part with it. He pocketed it and then quickly turned to the lady who by now was a wreck of nerves. Of course she had nothing on her and the sadist did not make it any easier as he fondled her private parts in search on any hidden treasures. More tears. More insults.

By now the matatu had reached Pangani roundabout, some 20 metres from another police station – Pangani. It housed the dreaded Flying Squad, a police crack unit well known for frying its victims to bits. Our hopes rose but deep down we all knew that it was a mirage. The absence of street lights did not make it any better. We all watched in disbelief as the vehicle negotiated the roundabout and headed towards Eastleigh, well known for all its colourful lifestyle and 24 hour bustling economy. No one would notice us. I don’t remember ever reading or hearing about any rescue mission in such cases.

Eastleigh is heavily populated with Somalis, both of Kenya and Somali descent. The war and instability in Somali had driven out many families who had eventually found their way to Eastleigh. This had led to all manners of businesses mushrooming up in Eastleigh. One of these was the sale and hiring out of guns.

At the juncture of Juja Road and Eastleigh Section 3 where St. Theresa’s Catholic Church is, the three men suddenly seemed to be in a hurry. “Okay!” commanded The Captain, ‘one last one for the road!” And the search began all over again. Shot Putt was just about to move away and interchange with Jordan when a glitter seemed to catch his eye: my nine year old 18 carat gold wedding ring! Man, I had saved for a whole year, taken a hefty bank and co-operative loan to purchase that gold ring and finance my wedding all in the name of impressing my woman! Nine years after the lavish wedding and three energy sapping children later, I am still reeling in debt, those who awed at the glamorous wedding nowhere in sight to help me clear my debts. I have read all those financial advice columns but all they seem to do is to increase my vocabulary on money matters.

“Ngui ici! Remove the ring!” Shot Putt barked mechanically. I hesitated and defiantly looked at him in the eye for the first time. Truth or Dare? Dare. Nini? Kama mbaya ni mbaya. I sized him up. He, just like me, is a man with two balls.

“Man,” I croaked hoping that my broken voice and pleading eyes would move him and make him change his mind. It was more of a wrong shot than a long one.

“Njoro,” shouted Shot Putt, thus attracting the attention of The Captain, “look at this dog!” The Captain (Njoro) turned his gun, took a few steps towards me. He pointed the gun to my head, a few inches from my skull. My estate upbringing tells me that Njoro is a short form and pet name of Njoroge.

“Ngui ino (You dog). Remove it before I blow off your brains!” he shouted menacingly, his teeth gritted in his mouth. Truth or Dare? Truth. His breath stunk of a mixture of fermented miraa, stale beer, garlic and raw onions. I pitied the woman who has to go to the pains of kissing such a man. Kill me quickly with the gun, Njoro, but not slowly with your breath. The whole truth.

There was renewed tension in the matatu. My wife turned and looked pleadingly at me. Of course I was not going to pull a James Bond or Chuck Norris move. No, I am way smarter than that. I removed the ring quite slowly, struggling to pull it off from my fat fingers, which were not the only part of my anatomy that had put on weight since that ring was put on my finger. Njoro tapped my head with the gun. “Hurry, ngui!”

As the ring slipped from my fingers, images of my marriage flushed through my mind: whirlwind courtship, nervous proposals, uncertain wedding blues, creamy wedding cake, glamorous church service, the sizzling and ideal honeymoon, and finally the reality of marriage. As Shot Putt took the ring, I felt a certain part of me die a slow cruel death. I am not sure whether the sadness that suddenly engulfed me was because of the lost ring or because I had to continue paying for what was not there. However, I quickly banished my worries and focused on the unpredictable journey ahead.

Finally the vehicle rumbled to a stop at a dark alley deep into Eastleigh. From the clock on the driver’s side, it was close to 8.30pm, a one hour ordeal looking like a whole night. Shot Putt and Jordan jumped out to be replaced by two other men: Shabby and Shaggy, two stoic and very shabbily dressed men. The stench they came with was one of accumulated sweat mixed with stale beer. The Pilot started the matatu and we sat in muted silence wondering where we were being taken.

There was minimal talk as the four men acknowledged each others presence. The same strategic positions were taken by them and off we went. No one spoke. We all had this premonition that something different was going to take place. We hoped for the best as we snaked out of Eastleigh and when we approached a police check spot along Thika Road just before Muthaiga Police Station, our hopes again rose to the highest. My bums tightened as I said a short prayer invoking on all the prophets to come to our aid. Something. Anything. Nothing happened. My sins must have outnumbered my good deeds by 10: 1. The only commandment I remembered at this point was the one of loving your neighbour like yourself. I had done that diligently, so where was the problem?

The vehicle slowed down and then stopped some few metres past the check point. “Everyone look in front!” Njoro hissed, knowing very well it was a matter of life and death. Or was it? Two armed policemen dressed in military fatigues with AK47 guns slung on their shoulders, lazily moved towards the vehicle but the driver, being seasoned in these missions, alighted and met them half way. A handshake between the driver and the policeman saw the vehicle being waved away. No wonder these police checks had been renamed ATMs. The despair in the vehicle was palpable. None of my three daughters would marry a policeman, I swore silently.

The harrowing drive took us past Thika Road, onto the perennially dark Kiambu Road that in more than forty years of Kenya’s independence, had never seen any street lights.

Finally we drove into the dreaded Karura forest, a heavily forested place. It was off Kiambu Road, and the driver took a dusty turning. He drove for more than 5 minutes into the forest. He at last stopped the vehicle on a cleared area. Some signs of activity were evident from the scattered cigarette wrappers. I was sure the gang had been here before, probably a daily rendezvous for such activities.

“Alight!” The Pilot, the driver, shouted as he got out of the vehicle. We alighted and all lined up beside the matatu. Four of them armed against 10 of us. Of the ten, 6 were men and four were women, my wife included. We huddled next to each other, our fear and discomfort being our unifying factor. We were distraught. The night wind blew eerily across the tall and imposing trees making the silence rather loud. The darkness was broken by the vehicle’s parking light.

“Strip!” shouted Shabby, the new commander. He was wearing dirty black jeans, a stained brown shirt, a faded black leather jacket and worn out sneakers that had seen better days. Dirt is good.

No one took the initiative to strip, so he removed his gun and fired in the air. In less than 30 seconds, we were all naked. All? One middle-aged woman refused to remove her inner clothing. Njoro moved from heap to heap, collecting our clothes and shoes. When he reached the lady in briefs, he shook his head and moved on. He seemed amused by our array of clothes. “Smartly dressed Nairobians with withered inner clothing,” he mused as he paraded a thong that looked more like a fishing net than a piece of clothing. It wasn’t mine and I am sure his underwear was not any better. That is if he had any. Njoro put all the clothes in the matatu. We shivered in the cold, awaiting the next set of instructions.

“Pick a partner,” shouted Shabby again. My wife’s hand quickly slid into mine, the trembling in them summarising the mood in the evening. After some hesitation from most, there were four left without partners: three men and one woman, the same one who had refused to remove her inner clothing.

“The Lord will not allow me to sin,” screeched the woman, striking at any man who came her way. “I am prepared to die,” her voice rose as she went on her knees, her hands spread out to the heavens and her eyes rolling out like someone possessed. “Lord of Jacob, Isaac and Job, protect me from the evils of mankind. Almighty and ever living God, send your thunder from the sky and strike all the sinners in this world. Lord, have mercy on your servants.……”

The rest of us tensed as Shabby casually moved towards her and without uttering a word, raised the gun and fired into her chest. The reverberating noise of the gunshot, sputtering blood and slumping body struck terror into us. Instinctively, the other three women screamed and as Shabby turned to them, they quickly kept quiet. This time the shock hit me and I almost threw up. I hate dead bodies. She fell on her side, her twitching coming to an end in a dramatic manner with her hands spread unevenly on the ground. Her haunting eyes and gaping mouth fixed on me. I tried looking away but somehow always ended back there.

The three men who had no partners looked lost. “Get a partner,” Shabby casually ordered them. Two of the men quickly joined the other three groups, thus making it a three some.

“No, that is not what I mean,” the sarcastic Shabby whispered dangerously. “Man to man,” he said, his gun not leaving his sight. “Move it!”

The two men slowly moved away from their acquired group, the gravity of the problem hitting them head on. They would remain like that: three of them!

Shaggy proceeded to inspect the guard of honour mounted by the nine scared souls that we were. At each point, he would make derogatory comments on people’s anatomy.

“Are these slippers or breasts?” he asked one of the surviving women. She kept quiet but one hard ondole kick on her sheen made her answer.

“Slippers.”

“What size?”

“14!”

Satisfied, the man moved on. “How many months pregnant are you?” he asked the next person, a man whose belly was protruding. He was the legit driver. I almost laughed.

“Four months,” replied the driver without batting an eyelid.

“Who is the father?”

He hesitated before replying, “I cannot remember, I was too drunk.” That seemed to satisfy the interrogator.

“Bob Marley and the Wailers,” he remarked to the next man, the conductor, who had long and knotted pubic and armpit hair. That got me and this time I suppressed a laugh. “Jah?” he invoked.

“Rastafari!” replied the dreadlocked conductor with a smile on his face.

“Shake dem dreadlocks Rastaman,” he was commanded in a fake Jamaican accent. The order was met with the wiggling of his hips which seemed to gratify our Shaggy.

Next was my turn and he smiled cruelly. “Wow! I have never seen a man with 3 balls,” he said in slow motion as he flicked my shrunk member with the nozzle of the gun. The coldness of the gun was no match to the cold whipping my backside. I looked at him and for the first time noticed the small size of his guava shaped head. I wondered what answer he was expecting from me. (….and I have never seen a man who is a BALL!) . He completed his guard with more comment that drew laughter from his gang members. The cold wind mercilessly whipped my back.

“Okay,” implored Shabby. “Here are the rules. You only fuck when I say so and the style that I choose so. Anything short of that will be met with…” He shot into the dead woman’s body and we all got the message loudly and clearly. I flinched. Those haunting eyes again. Remove the damn body!

Before the show could continue, Njoro lit four rolls of marijuana. He smoked one roll, passed two to his colleagues and one he passed on to me. “Puff and pass it on. You will need it,” he croaked. Even as a teenager, with marijuana readily available in the estates, I never became a disciple of the Holy Weed. The only time I had puffed marijuana was as a high school student on a visit to the village. This had led to disastrous events of me fucking one of my grandmother’s chicken to death. My wife has never known why I don’t eat chicken.

I took a puff, inhaled and then passed it on to my wife who pulled a Bill Clinton: smoke but do not inhale. She coughed and then passed it on to the dreadlocked man. He took a long puff and had to be reminded by Njoro that there were others waiting for the puff. He reluctantly passed it on and it went up to the end, the area completely filled with smoke. Njoro was right, I felt light headed and warm, though sounds of clucking chicken intermingled with human laughter roared in my head. I smiled. The cold was gone.

“Ngui!” shouted Shabby and we all stood there waiting for instructions. It was some moment before we realised that he meant doggie style. Another gun shot and we all took our positions. My wife knelt in front of me and I had problems rising to the occasion. Lovemaking, to me, is a private affair. Any prying eyes kill the magic and mystery of it.

Another humiliating guard of honour before Shabby shouted. “Fuck!” This time we knew it was an order and not an insult. I struggled to find the point of entry.

“Stop!” Shabby shouted and we all stopped and moved back. What followed was one of the most humiliating experiences ever in my life. We were ordered to change partners by simply moving to the next person in the queue until all the people, irrespective of age or gender, had had a turn. I don’t know what was more humiliating: screwing a man, seeing another man mount your wife or being watched by your wife as you pump into another man or woman. I lost count of the number of times I had to restrain myself from attacking any man pretending to or mounting my wife. The presence of the dead body was a continuous reminder of what awaited us if we chose to disobey the gang. I chose to play hard ball, after all I had three. The marijuana was also taking its toll on me. I envied the dead woman. She looked so peaceful and would not have to live with all this. She was dead on the outside. We were dead on the inside. I wonder which is worse.

After what seemed like a whole night of the orgy, the four men seemed to have had their share of entertainment. The Pilot went to the vehicle and threw our clothes out. The other men joined him in the vehicle and they started the vehicle leaving us behind. “Same time, same place and same styles,” invoked Shaggy much to the amusement of his friends. They hurriedly drove off.

We quickly went for our clothes and within a minute we were all dressed, savouring the warmth of our clothes. My wife clung on to me, the tears refusing to stop. Someone had to take charge. Not me. The marijuana had all but evaporated in my head.

“Let us follow them,” said one of the short men whom I had pretended to screw during the ordeal. I could not bring my eyes to look at him.

“Sure!” I croaked and we started the slow walk to nowhere.

“What about her?” one of the women asked, referring to the dead body. We all stopped and wondered what to do.

“Leave her there. We shall look for help once we get to safety,” the man in charge replied. It looked cruel but it was the only sensible thing to do.

We trudged on. The imposing trees did not allow the faint moonlight to penetrate through the foliage. We stumbled our way and after some half an hour of trial and error, we finally reached Kiambu Road.

“Muthaiga Police Station is nearer than Kiambu Police Station,” the same man said. We knew that no help would come as a group of nine walking in the middle of the night (or was it morning?) would attract more suspicion.

We walked all the way to Muthaiga Police Station without any hitch. As we walked, the talk veered away from the orgy and more on what we had lost. One man had his house rent (shs.15 000) in his wallet; another man complained of losing shs.5 000 that he had just been lent by his brother. The ladies had lost earrings, necklaces and a couple of rings. It was during this time that my wife whispered about a HIV test. I agreed with her but it had to wait.

We made our way to the reception desk of the police station. The imposing portrait of the country’s president and the police commissioner adorned the pealing yellow walls. Did the two gentlemen know what was happening to their subjects? The police force motto: Utimishi kwa wote (Service To All) was boldly displayed on the wall as well. It is a motto that, while I was in college, we derogatorily used to refer to girls of loose morals. It must be the same even now.

The police officer in charge seemed quite shocked to see such a big group so early in the morning. It was close to 4am by the clock on the wall.

We all recorded statements and the incident was written in the occurrence book. By the time we were through, it was close to 6am, a time for a change of shift of the policemen. The change of guard came with the raising of the flag. For the first time in a long time, the raising of the flag refused to spur any patriotic emotions in me.

“Please wait for the incoming team so that I can hand you over to someone who will follow up your case,” the polite officer informed us. He explained that there was only one patrol car and it was out in the field. He would radio the details to them.

At exactly 6.30am, a contingent of officers arrived for their duty. The change was swift and we were handed to one tall and amiable officer. He looked very familiar: the shape of his mouth, his voice and walking style. Where had I seen him? He could not stop looking at his watch, either because he was expecting someone or it was a new acquisition. I stole a look at the watch and it was too familiar.

“Nice watch,” I told him. “Where did you buy it?” I asked.

He moved closer to me to show off and I saw that it was indeed my 5 year old treasure. I noticed the thick brown leather strapping. Some things just never leave your mind.

“My younger brother, Njoro, gave it to me as a birthday present this morning,” he confidently told me. My shoulders slumped.

“Happy birthday officer!” I muttered.